The Warrior King and the Picture Book
by Nobody'sNobody
Summary: Harry learns how to dream for himself. Kid-fic. One-shot. Rated T to be safe.


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to Harry Potter and so on.

AN: It seams that I am having trouble building long stories, so I'm gonna make this a one-shot so that I can finish SOMETHING. You know, keep everything as a nice package so that I'm not as evil.

Enjoy

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><p>The Warrior King and the Picture Book, A Harry Potter Fanfiction<p>

By: Nobody'sNobody

"You see things; and you say, 'Why?' But I dream things that never were; and I say, 'Why not?'"

- George Bernard Shaw

A little boy could be found under the stairs of number 4 Privet Drive. It would not be completely unusual for a boy to find himself in a place where he shouldn't be. Perhaps he was hiding, or playing fort. That would be if anything in this particular boy's life would be considered normal.

The little boy actually lived in that tiny closet. He was currently curled up on the well-worn cot holding his only valuable possession to his chest. It was a well-worn book. An unassuming book, that was completely unremarkable. He found it on one of his walks home from primary. It was in the rubbish bin he would hide behind to avoid Dudley and his group of friends.

The cover was worn and the back of it was almost torn off. The binding was also in disrepair, groups of pages noticeably missing. Although there were some pictures, it is important to note that the pages that were left were written in some foreign language. It was also important to note that despite all of this, little Harry, (for that was the boy's name) treasured it. It was the only thing that was truly his; that he could keep forever. Something that did not come from the Dursleys that would be held over his head like some type of charity; it wouldn't be proof of the Dursley's selflessness like the sock he received for his birthday. But that alone was not what made this book special.

After that day he would carry it with him. His Aunt would sneer, but the book seemed normal enough. She wasn't inclined to causing a fuss over something that obviously kept him out of her hair, as Harry took to secluding himself away to study it (not that it helped the words become any less indecipherable).

It was during one of these sessions that he discovered what made this book so special to him. He turned each page of the book, wishing he could understand it. Trying to be careful with the pages that were left, while running his fingers over the strange figures.

It challenged him.

He didn't understand what was there, so he made up his own stories. He gave the book his own meaning, and he would pretend how it would tell him tales of magic. Stories about the warrior that would slay the evil pig monster and receive a feast of golden apples that would grant any wish with every bite.

It told him stories of a king with an army of flying motorcycles that would shoot green lasers and how it chased off an evil army that wished to take over his kingdom.

It told him wonderful stories about beautiful places that had trees that would grow candy, and where you could eat the sunshine.

Anything was possible in this book. It held his secret world. It held his freedom.

For a while he was happy. His Aunt seamed not to care, so long as it did not appear "inappropriate", his Uncle never really paid any attention to him unless it was to tell him to do some menial chore, and he knew better than to have Dudley see anything that had a hint of value else it would be destroyed. All was happy until the book started telling him a different sort of story.

It started after the day when the Dursleys left him with Mrs. Figg because they were going to a business dinner as a family and did not wish a freak like him to come along (it was only for _real_ family, Dudley informed him). And as he was looking through the photo album of all of Mrs. Figg's cats for the third time, while trying not to disturb the blanket of said cats that covered the chair, he could not help but ponder over why Mrs. Figg had so many.

"Well Harry, dear, it's because I love them O'course" Mrs. Figg replied after he built up the courage to ask after having helped her for a couple of hours by preparing and setting out food for the cats and cleaning the litter boxes. "They're all the family I got. I can't help but love them all, and I couldn't bear the thought of even losing one."

A little later she got a call to ask if she could drop Harry off as Dudley was really tired and they were busy trying to get him to bed. She walked him to the gate, and rushed off because she left the oven on to heat another pot of tea.

He walked slowly to the door when he noticed the movement of shadows beyond the window. Hearing laughter, he peaked in through a hole in the curtain. He spotted his Uncle dancing merrily around the kitchen with his Aunt, whose face was alight with happiness as he peaked her on the cheek before he ruffles his hand through Dudley's hair as he was eating the leftovers from the night before. They all then sat around the table and listened (though with Dudley that was always debatable as he is very distracted by food in general and by the telly on principle) to his Uncle speak animatedly.

He remembers how after he knocks on the door and his relatives are reminded of him that this moment is shattered. His Uncle and Dudley go in to watch the telly, both now working on the leftovers, and he is left alone with his Aunt's glare. They remain like this for a couple of minutes before he realizes that he is crying and then he goes back into the cabinet with his treasure.

After that, things changed. For weeks, the book would tell him horrible stories. Stories where the warrior fails and all of his kingdom is laid to waste. How the motorcycles betray him and destroy his forest of golden apples and candy. That the sunshine is poison and how his subjects leave him forever. He realizes that he is not loved. He clutches the book tighter to himself and wonders why he is not loved.

His knuckles turn whiter now as his shoulders begin to shake. Day after day it is the same horrible stories. Why can't the king win? Why can't he be happy? Is he really that different that he doesn't deserve to be happy? That some stupid cats that can't clean up their own poo can have someone that loves them, and he can't?

Blood rushes to his face as anger blooms in his chest. He sits himself up and furiously begins to slam the book against the locked door of the closet. Over and over he beats the book into the door. The binding finally breaks apart and he still continues to bang at it. He can see the lights turn on through the vents and he can hear yelling. All of a sudden, the light from the hall floods in as his door is slammed open and is forced to stop as his Uncle starts shaking him. Pages from the book are everywhere all over the floor. He can see his uncle speaking and his aunt behind him on the stairs with one hand over her heart and the other for support on the banister.

His uncle is telling him how much a freak he is and how he should be grateful that they didn't decide to put him in an orphanage. He tells him that it was out of the kindness of their hearts that they tolerate him and that there wouldn't be anyone else in the world that would show a freak like him any kindness. That he and his aunt showed him that he got what he deserved. He is still shaking him, trying to get a reaction, or at least an apology that he had inconvenienced them _again._ It wasn't until he dropped the page that he realized that it was in his hand at all. It landed in the light and he saw a picture that he did not remember seeing before. On the page, surrounded by the now familiar writing was a faded picture of a black cat.

Harry then glanced up at his Uncle, who still had his hands clamped on his shoulders (but had stopped shaking him). Returning his gaze to the picture on the floor, he heard his uncle rasp, "Don't you have something to say, Freak?"

"Yes" his small voice replied.

"Well?" His Uncle's patience already strained. His large face turning purple and his hands clenched a little tighter.

"I want to go to the orphanage." Said Harry.

His Uncle gaped at him, finally dropping his hands from his shoulders, the area still throbbing as if his hands were still there. Vernon looked upon his 7 year old nephew in shock.

Before Vernon could recover; however, Petunia stepped in with a fearful yet angry look on her face and hissed, "What did you say?" Not allowing him a chance to speak, she continued. "How dare you throw the kindness we have shown you in our face, you little ingrate?" Crossing her arms over her chest and pointing her nose slightly into the air.

Harry looked down at the floor again, spotting the picture from the corner of his eye.

Vernon, recovering with his face returning to its previous shade of purple roared, "You think we will let you go to the orphanage now, Freak? You owe us. We let you into our home and give you food and clothing and all that is not good enough? Think you can find something better, eh? Well things are gonna change now, Freak" His Uncle's hands clenched at his side. "You think things were bad? Well now you are gonna have to earn everything we give you, including food. Boy, from now on you do everything we tell you or we are gonna start taking things away. You are gonna learn that it is a privilege to sleep in this house."

His Uncle glares down at him for a moment, before telling his Aunt to go up stairs. She hesitates a moment, but trusting Vernon not to do anything rash, she heads back to bed.

After she leaves, he kneels down to his level making his gaze unavoidable, and rasps while glaring into his nephew's eyes, "And don't you even think about running and embarrassing us, boy, cause I will find you and make you wish you never survived that car crash."

He forces Harry back into the cupboard, and locks the door. He then gathers up all of the papers from Harry's beloved book off on the floor, places them into the fireplace, and then lights it up. Looking into the fire for a moment, he then turns to look at his nephew, knowing he is watching through the grate. After only a few embers are left, he goes back to bed, grunting as he climbs the stairs.

Harry didn't know how, but when he opened his hands, it revealed the page with the picture of the cat, the only thing left. He brought it close to his face, trying to see it through the dark. He began to feel determined. This was all that was left of his dreams. He will find a family that will love him, and he will escape the Dursleys. No matter what.

It wasn't a week later that the teachers in his class began to notice some bruises all over Harry. After a few weeks he began to noticeably loose weight, an alarming thing considering that he was a growing boy. Teachers began to get worried. It was when Harry would show up to class bleeding that they began contacting his guardians. They denied anything was wrong. That he horse-played too much, that he was a picky eater with a fast metabolism, that he was clumsy, and that he bruised and bled easily. Harry was always a well-behaved quiet child, but he seemed even quieter when they began asking questions, trying to coax specific information about how exactly he got each and every one of his injuries.

This continued for a while, all the teachers keeping a worried eye on Harry, just hoping that their fears are unfounded.

Harry closed his eyes in anticipation for the pain that will come as he slammed the door on his own hand. From that night when everything changed, when he realized how badly he wanted to be loved, he began to … do things to himself. He took his Uncle's warning to heart, there was no way he could stand a chance on his own, but if the crown took him away, that was a different story. He began by letting things happen to him. By not moving when the tower of dishes fell on him. By tripping on rocks, by not catching his falls. His family decided to feed him less due to his "clumsiness", which suited his purposes just fine. He then began to mouth off to Dudley and his friends, letting them catch him, leaving him with some of his nastier bruises. But even Dudley got bored of people like his toys when he broke them too much, leaving him to have to resort to this.

Tears came to his eyes and he bit down on his bottom lip against the pain. Everything wasn't enough. All the pain he went through so far just wasn't enough yet. He could see the suspicion in his teachers eyes, but they weren't convinced. He needed to be sure that they would be convinced that he was being abused by his relatives before he said anything about it. Otherwise his _family_ will be aware of what he has been doing, and he would loose his chance at being loved forever.

It was with this thought in mind, that Harry stood at the top of the stairs. He needed bigger bruises. He needed unquestionable belief. He needed a family.

He made sure to mess up more than normal. He started one-sided yelling matches with his Uncle by spilling his tea on him at supper, by staining the carpet in the living area, by burning everything he cooked, and so on. Making sure that the neighbors would hear the yelling, dispite Petunias sharp warnings.

So here he was, on the ledge of his grand finale. He would surely go to the hospital after this and he will begin talking. They will send in a social worker and they will look into his history. The teachers and staff at his primary will tell them their fears. The neighbors will speak of the noises and yelling they hear on a consistent basis. He will weave a story about the Dursley's hate for him. He will mention that they lock him under the stairs and hurt him, and how, today, they threw him down the stairs. This was his dream, that they will take him away. He will escape. And it is all one step away.

So with these thoughts Harry's determination is renewed he lets out a terrified scream as he backs up to run at the stairs as a warrior-king heading to battle. He hurls himself over the edge, for a moment, flying with the motorcycles. His feet are above him as he hits his head, biting down on his tongue, tasting the juice of those golden apples and sunshine as blood fills his mouth. He continues to roll down the stairs and when he reaches the end he sees black like the cat.

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><p>AN: Review for criticism...Or praise, I'll take that too. It is late and I am too eager and undisciplined to edit thoroughly. If any major mistakes are there, let me know so I may fix them.<p> 


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